


Mamá

by Jubalii



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Coco Charity Zine, Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Secrets, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:48:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22076452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: She was Mamá Imelda. Coco, her brothers, even the neighbors and their children called her that. Mamá this, Mamá that, Mamá-can-you-please. But once, years and years ago… hadn’t she been something else, too?
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Kudos: 20





	Mamá

**Author's Note:**

> This is my piece for ¡The World es Mi Familia!: A Coco Charity Zine.   
> We've been working on this fanzine since March 2019, and now it's finally released to the public! The theme was "Family". 
> 
> The zine is being sold throughout the month of January. You can learn more and purchase it here: cococharityzine.bigcartel.com/product/the-world-es-mi-familia-a-coco-charity-zine 
> 
> I hope you check it out!

A lifetime ago, Imelda Rivera told a certain man exactly  _ where  _ he could put his shoes. That, however, was long before she understood the importance of good footwear.

“ _ Por Dios _ , how many times must I say it?!” Imelda brandished the two…  _ things  _ before her twin brothers’ long noses. These abominations didn’t deserve the satisfaction of being called shoes: misshapen, thin-soled lumps of overstretched leather with no arch support and even less reason to exist. A mental ledger scrolled behind her eyes, mind churning with figures as she calculated the cost of their foolishness.

It was mindboggling—what carelessness, what sheer, squandering  _ wastefulness _ ! Two pairs’ worth of good product, now completely useless and unable to be recycled. The leather alone was enough, but it stretched farther than that. There were shoe nails to think of, and sketching paper that might have went toward something practical. Not to mention the time wasted on a fruitless endeavor, and every one of her best polishing brushes! Even the laces were ruined beyond repair; she’d stopped listening at the mention of ‘anti-lace laces’, trying to keep a firm grasp on what remained of her patience. 

_ This has to stop. _

“You are shoemakers,” she hissed, jaw clenched. It wouldn’t do for the neighbors to overhear; they gossiped enough as it was, whispering behind their hands every time she lost her temper and raised her voice.  _ It’s no wonder, is it? I’d have run too, if my wife flew into rages that easily. _

“You are shoemakers,” she repeated, shaking the thoughts from her head as she drove the point home. “Not… inventors.”  _ Breathe, Imelda.  _ Without further ceremony, she dumped the failed Scrub Brush Shoes straight into the scrap bin. They landed at the bottom with a solid  _ thunk,  _ laying forlornly among thin leather shavings and nails bent beyond salvaging. More wastage, more money.

She gazed dispassionately at the bin’s contents, racking her brain for a suitable punishment. Had it been someone else—anyone else—they’d have been out the door without another word. But Óscar and Felipe were her brothers; they worked for almost nothing, taking food and board in exchange for helping her with the influx of orders that poured in each week. Firing them was out of the question. Straightening her shoulders, she let a final huff through her nose before turning to face them.

“The cost will come from your pay.” Her voice sounded foreign to her ears, oddly distant from its usual sharp-tongued snappiness. Seated side by side on their identical stools, neither twin spared her a glance. Óscar’s eyes never left the pinstripes on his trousers, while Felipe stared dreamily through the split window that served as the  _ zapatería’s _ counter. However, her words hadn’t fallen on deaf ears; both faces burned with shame, twin mustaches standing in stark contrast to the reddish hue.

To an untrained eye, it seemed as though the clear-cut message had sunk in. Neither man tried to argue the point, or even correct her assertion. There wasn’t a peep of protest for their docked pay. But Imelda knew better than to let sleeping dogs lie. She was their sister, one of the few people who could claim knowing them their whole lives. She saw the stubborn set of two chins, the quiet rebellion burning in otherwise placid brown eyes. This wasn’t the first time she’d ranted and raved over their so-called ‘progressive’ shoe designs. Without anyone saying a word, she also knew it wouldn’t be the last.

“ _ Escuchame _ ,” she began, trying to soften the blow along with her voice. “I’ve been more than patient with you. Clock shoes, wallet shoes, even shoes in the shape of trout.” Closing her eyes, she could hear her mother’s plaintive tone in the words. So many times she’d been lectured herself, sitting on a stool of her own as her mother’s exhausted voice washed over her in disappointed waves. “I let you try all of them without a word, but you can’t improve shoes! There’s no need to try.”

“But Imelda—” they finally protested, two voices melding into one.

“No buts.” She sighed, brushing a stubborn lock of hair behind her ear before crossing her arms. “I don’t need innovators in my shop. What I need are strong, capable workers. Mm! Shh! No!” she interrupted each time they tried to speak, holding up a finger in warning. “We don’t have the money to indulge in….”  _ How would they say it?  _ “In frivolous hobbies,” she concluded with triumph. “We have to worry about our own situation first.” 

“We are!” Óscar insisted.

“If we can patent—”

“If, if, if.  _ If  _ it were the three of us only, I might let you continue these silly ideas. But we’re up to our elbows in orders as it is. And besides, we still have to think about—”

“Mamá?” Imelda fell silent as the door to the living quarters opened; a perfectly round face, flanked by two thick plaits, peered around the frame. “Mamá, Don Martínez is at the gate.” A lump settled at the hollow of her throat. Both hands groped for the thick leather strap of her apron, squeezing the tough material until she could muster a smile.

“Thank you, Coco. Tell him I’ll be right there.”  _ I’ll get an extension or he’ll get a taste of my boot!  _ The thought was quickly discarded, followed by another, much more reasonable one.  _ One week. Surely he can give us one more week.  _ Forgetting her brothers for the moment, she turned to follow Coco through the door and out to the back gate. Numbers slid like silk through her thoughts.  _ If I work an extra two hours before bed, that one order can be ready by Wednesday. I can cut the rice to last through the weekend, and so long as nothing changes…. _

“Imelda?” Blinking, she glanced up to see herself leaned against the threshold, her forehead flush to the wooden doorframe as she tried to make the most impossible of ends meet. Both men stared at her, watching with concern as she rubbed the red mark from her forehead. She swallowed hard, forcing down her own worried by habit. She paused long enough to nod at the cluttered worktable, still messy with the byproducts of their haphazard brainstorming.

“Clean up your mess, then close up and go start your chores. The stove’s going to need some wood if you want your supper hot.”

* * *

“I’m off to get supplies for  _ mis tíos _ !”

_ No, you’re not _ . Imelda smiled wryly, watching as her fifteen-year-old daughter shrugged on her heels before making a beeline for the door. Little Coco wasn’t quite so little anymore; she was at that trying age, where every adult was a fool and her mother the biggest of them all. It was true that her uncles were scatterbrains by nature, but even they couldn’t run out of supplies three times in one week. Something else was going on. Judging by how Coco had been glowing lately, Imelda had a fairly good idea just what—or rather, who—that something was.

“What supplies will you be getting?” she asked, leaning against the doorframe as she watched Coco fix the strap over one ankle. She’d made the sandals herself for her daughter’s last birthday, seeing how she fawned over the glossy magazine pictures of women with short skirts and smooth legs.

Her own youth wasn’t so far in the past that she couldn’t remember what it was like to wish for something beautiful. She could still recall begging for Mamá to sew her a dress in the latest style, wearing it with pride as she went dancing, walking the streets arm in arm with H—

In any case, it was natural for a girl her age to be interested in fashion. There was no reason she couldn’t have nice shoes to show off those painstakingly painted toenails.  _ I wonder who it is you’re dressing up for.  _ There was little doubt in her mind that Coco had a suitor. One of the vendor’s sons, perhaps; that would explain running to the plaza every day she could possibly contrive an excuse. Or maybe a farmhand, loitering around the stalls instead of hurrying home to finish his chores. An apprentice?

Hopefully it wasn’t a m… a boy she’d have to veto. She paused at the entrance to Coco’s room, peering inside the open door at the neatly arranged furniture. Laundry lay folded demurely at the foot of the bed, the vanity table a mess of hair ribbons and assorted jewelry. The window was open, stirring both the curtain and the faded petals of half a dozen flowers.  _ Hmm.  _ Coco had returned from the plaza with a bloom in her hair more than once these past few weeks. They couldn’t all be for free, unless her young admirer was a plucky florist.

_ Ay, mi.  _ The closet door was standing open again. Shaking her head, Imelda stepped into the room to shut it.  _ How many times must I tell this girl to close doors against the draft? Always in a hurry….  _ One ironed dress sleeve was in danger of being wrinkled by the door, its pale fabric fluttering helplessly in the breeze. She opened the closet fully, pushing the dress neatly into place with the others hanging there. She took a moment to smooth the white collar, admiring the neat machine-stitched pleats before turning to leave.

_ What in the? _

What was a polishing brush doing in Coco’s closet? Confused, Imelda sank to her knees, stifling a groan as her aching joints moved more slowly than she’d like. Despite being in the prime of her life, years of hard work had taken a toll on her body. Some days she felt more like a woman in her fifties, rather than her thirties. She could ignore the graying hair and eye wrinkles, but these frequent aches were harder to push aside. Aging was aging. 

Once on her knees, she brushed aside the voluminous skirts and reached towards the cluttered back of the closet. Her fingers found roughly patched leather, stiff with disuse. Retreating, she found that she tightly gripped a sad little mess that resembled a shoe only in the vaguest sense of the word. It was one of her brothers’ ridiculous shoe inventions, but… which one had this been, again?

Thinking back over the years, she absently fingered the lopsided tongue. Her fingers slipped, jamming into a hidden pocket near the seam and cracking a wedge off her middle fingernail. Ah, yes. The wallet shoes. What a foolish idea; as if anyone would want to bend over for their money, when they already had pockets sewn in their trousers! Setting it aside, she shoved aside a lacy church dress and found a hidden treasure trove of shoes that she was almost—no, she  _ was  _ certain she’d tossed into the scrap bin years ago. 

Tucking the dress so that it wouldn’t fall back over the mess, she picked up the scrub brush shoes and held them up to the light. Her tongue worked in her jaw, a fond smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. Her best shoe brushes, she remembered, and in a time where she’d had to wait weeks before she could afford another set.

How strange it seemed, to remember those desperate times! Now it was nothing to hand Coco a few coins, to bid her go and by this-or-that before the market closed. The bills were paid on time every month, the budget adjusted accordingly against interest rates that seemed to climb higher each year. But back then things were so different; her stomach grumbled in sympathy, reminded of countless nights where she’d gone to her tiny bed alone and hungry.

_ These need to be thrown out.  _ There was no need in crowded a perfectly good closet with inventions that hadn’t worked, would never work. Her first instinct was to line them in a row down the workbench, sit facing the door, and wait for Coco to saunter in as late as ever. There’d be a confrontation, a lecture, and the matter could finally rest for the rest of their lives.

But… at the same time….

Imelda sat against the closet door, the ill-fated shoes gathered in her lap like peeping chicks in a farmer’s skirts. Something deep in her chest ached, rising to press against her throat as she carefully stroked the anti-lace laces. Regret, she realized with a start. Regret, tempered with something akin to nostalgia.

She was Mamá Imelda. Coco, her brothers, even the neighbors and their children called her that. Mamá this, Mamá that, Mamá-can-you-please. But once, years and years ago… hadn’t she been something else, too? Just Imelda, the carefree girl with no child and no debt, who could laugh at her brother’s ideas instead of constantly scolding them. Just-Imelda had a mamá of her own to do the worrying and the scolding. Just-Imelda had free time to play, to dance and sing with a new dress floating on the breeze her twirling body created. Just-Imelda had been… not happier _ ,  _ per se, but….

Free.

Mamá Imelda had no time to play games. There were chores: clothes to wash, food to cook, shoes to make. Mamá Imelda didn’t dance or sing; her hobbies were industrious. Knitting, sewing, creating something practical out of a bunch of nothing. Mamá Imelda sheltered her family beneath outstretched wings, willing to go without so that they never knew what it meant to  _ want _ . 

_ That’s the difference between children and adults,  _ she thought with a heartfelt sigh, stroking the shoes. They were so ugly; she looked at them and saw nothing but wasted material, wasted effort and, worst of all, wasted time. But Coco saw the beauty that only existed in Imelda’s long-lost memory: creativity, ingenuity, imagination. She adored her uncles and their creations, enough to rescue them from the trash and hide them away from danger.

_ I wonder what else she hides.  _ Imelda’s eyes burned with unshed tears at the thought. She sniffed once, allowing herself one small weakness before wiping her eyes on her apron. She stacked the shoes in neat rows at the back of Coco’s closet, keeping the pairs together and turning their tongues in before silently replacing the skirts. She climbed to her feet with effort, closing the closet door and gripping the knob as her thoughts tumbled over one another.

“Meow?” Purring, Pepita wound around her ankles, tail twitching in the air as she gazed up with bright yellow eyes. Imelda smiled, reaching down to trail her fingertips over the cat’s soft head. Pepita raised onto her back paws, bunting her palm before jumping onto the windowsill, scattering petals. Imelda adjusted her skirts, taking a deep, floral-scented breath before sweeping from the room with a matronly stride. 

“No use thinking about the past,” she murmured as she passed through the empty courtyard. “There’s too much to do.” The workshop was dim, but hummed pleasantly with the sound of hard work. Óscar and Felipe sat side by side, sewing soles in perfect rhythm.  **_Swish_ ** _ -swish,  _ **_swish_ ** _ -swish,  _ **_swish_ ** _ -swish.  _ The familiar melody lulled her, and she caught herself about to sway along. Shaken from her reverie, she clapped her hands on their shoulders, leaning between their long faces to press a plum-tinted kiss to identical cheeks. Before they could voice their surprise she was gone, taking her seat before the moneybox and offering a cordial nod to Doña Estrada. 

“What was—”

“—that for?”

“Why, no reason.” She stared innocently at them, mouth pursed. “I can’t kiss my own brothers every now and then? I did help raise you, you know.” They glanced at each other, studying the lip marks on their cheekbones, and then turned back to her with mirror expressions of bafflement. “Never mind!” she snapped, opening the ledger with a blush. “Just finish that order before you run off.”

“Well… whatever you say,  _ hermana _ .” 


End file.
